Without a Hitch

by Andrew Price

  “What are we supposed to do if they convict him?”

  “Then you live with it, Evan!” Corbin suddenly shouted. “You live with it!”

  “No, I won’t! I can’t let an innocent man go down for my crime.”

  “What do you want from me, Evan?!” Corbin pulled off his sunglasses and glared at Beckett.

  “I need your help. We need to do something,” Beckett pleaded.

  A chill ran down Corbin’s spine. His eyes narrowed and his lips drew back, revealing his teeth. “What are you suggesting, Evan?”

  “I’ve entered my appearance as his attorney, I’m going to represent him.”

  “You what?!” Corbin exclaimed. His whole body shook, as if he’d absorbed a punch.

  “I’m going to defend him.”

  “Have you lost your fucking mind?!” Corbin’s muscles visibly tensed and his hands formed into claws as if he intended to choke Beckett, but he didn’t approach him.

  Corbin’s outburst shocked Beckett, but he didn’t back down. “No Alex, I’m seeing things more clearly now!”

  “That’s what crazy people say, Evan, that everything keeps getting clearer!”

  “I’m not arguing about this, Alex,” Beckett insisted. He paused. “I need your help.”

  “Wh. . . what?!” Corbin laughed in disbelief.

  “I need your help,” Beckett repeated slowly. “If I’m going to get him off, I need your help.”

  “My help?!”

  “Alex, I need that big, beautiful brain of yours.”

  Corbin’s left eye twitched. His scowl grew colder, more angry.

  “If you don’t help me, I don’t know that I can get this guy off, but together. . . we can do this,” Beckett urged.

  “And what are you going to do if you can’t, Evan?!” Corbin demanded sharply. His voice became gruff and his nostrils flared.

  Beckett looked down at the dirt and shrugged his shoulders.

  “What are you going to do then, Evan?!” Corbin demanded again. He barely controlled his rage.

  “Then, as you say. . . I’ll live with it. But if we don’t try to save this guy, I will turn myself in to save him,” Beckett said in an apologetic tone.

  Corbin stopped breathing.

  “I won’t turn you in, but I will turn myself in,” Beckett continued.

  Corbin glanced over his shoulder at the passenger seat of his car, where his gun lay hidden beneath a jacket. His anger temporarily blurred his vision. He turned and leaned his arms against the roof of his car, resting his head on his wrists. He took a dozen shallow breaths, trying to calm himself.

  Beckett didn’t wait for Corbin to calm down before speaking again. “If you help me, we can get him off.”

  “Have you thought about your family, Evan?” Corbin hissed, without lifting his head. His voice echoed off the metal roof of the car. “Did you forget all the evidence points straight at you? You’re going to sacrifice your wife, your job, your kids, your life for this fucker?!”

  “None of the evidence points to me, your plan saw to that. As for this guy, it doesn’t matter who he is. He didn’t do this, we did. I can’t face my family with that on my conscience,” Beckett said with great sadness.

  “This is fucking crazy!” Corbin screamed, slapping the roof of his car and walking away from Beckett. Beckett had never seen Corbin so angry before, no one had. Corbin put his hands on his knees and took more shallow breaths. “Why are you doing this?” Corbin asked himself, though he said this aloud.

  “Because it’s the right thing to do. We need to right this wrong.”

  “Why do you need me? You’re the trial attorney, not me?” Corbin asked in a distant, detached tone, which suggested he was still working this out for himself rather than speaking to Beckett.

  “I need your mind. I need your organizational skills, your verbal acuity, your writing skills. I’m not good on paper, you are. If I’m going to get this guy off, I need you.”

  “I’m not admitted in Pennsylvania,” Corbin said, though his mind was clearly on matters other than this point.

  “I am. I can get you admitted temporarily through a pro hac vice motion.”

  Corbin crouched down and stared at the dirt. Beckett waited silently. Finally, Corbin rose and walked to his car without looking at Beckett. He climbed into the driver’s seat and started the engine. He closed the door and stared out the windshield for several seconds before lowering the driver’s window. He still hadn’t looked at Beckett, who stood between the two vehicles. Slowly, Corbin slid his hand under the jacket on the seat next to him. He felt the cold metal of the pistol. He wrapped his hand around the stock and slid his finger over the trigger. One round rested in the chamber. Fourteen more were set to follow. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes.

  “I need to think about this,” Corbin said. His lips were dry.

  “There’s a hearing scheduled on Thursday,” Beckett responded hopefully.

  “You’ll have your answer before then.” With that, he drove off.

  The daylight faded as the sun set. Corbin’s apartment grew darker by the minute. Corbin sat on his couch, resting one foot on his coffee table. His arms were spread out straight along the back of the couch. The last ray of sunlight, which lit up his face, was vanishing. It was the only light left in the room. Alvarez paced back and forth. He stopped and looked at Corbin.

  “Do you think he’s serious?” Alvarez asked with a mixture of anger and disbelief.

  Corbin shrugged his shoulders, but didn’t speak.

  Alvarez continued pacing. “He’s going to risk himself and us to save some criminal? Unbelievable! Do you think he’s serious?” he asked a second time.

  Corbin shrugged his shoulders again.

  “What the hell is he thinking? Why would he do this?” Alvarez stopped pacing again and looked at Corbin. “Are you sure he’s serious?”

  Once more, Corbin shrugged his shoulders.

  “Ah ha!” Alvarez exclaimed, pointing his finger at Corbin. “You’re sure! I knew it.” Alvarez returned to his pacing. “I knew he was unreliable, the way he acted in Philly. . . but this! Who the hell could have seen this coming?” Alvarez stopped and stared at the ceiling for several seconds before turning to Corbin once more. “What did he say about the wallet?”

  “He never mentioned it. And, before you ask, I didn’t ask him either.”

  “Why not?”

  “I wasn’t exactly thinking straight.”

  “Are you sure he’s serious?” Alvarez asked again. “Of course you are, or we wouldn’t be talking about this,” Alvarez answered his own question. “Do you think this is the smart way to play this?”

  Corbin shrugged his shoulders again.

  “Man! What is it with this guy? Is he just stupid?!”

  “No, he thinks he’s being moral.”

  “What’s the difference?” Alvarez asked bitterly.

  “The difference is he didn’t stumble into this. He chose this path, and we need to realize he’s likely to choose more wrong paths, not because he’s stupid, but because he thinks he’s doing the right thing.”

  “He wants to go to jail? That’s what you’re saying? He feels guilty and he wants to be punished?”

  “No. He doesn’t want to go to jail any more than we do. His only concern is that this guy doesn’t go down for something we did. If we get the guy off or get him to plead to something unrelated, then Beckett’s morals are satisfied and this can all end.”

  “Ok, let’s go over this again. Why play his game? Why help him?”

  “I don’t see that we have a choice. He’s going to do this whether I help him or not. If I don’t help him, everything is out of our control. But if I agree to help him, then I can keep an eye on him. I can also probe him to find out exactly what he’s got on us, like the missing wallet. Once we know more about that, then we can take appropriate action.”

  “. . . and that’s why we can’t do anything else right now,” Alvarez added, trying to
convince himself of something he already knew to be true.

  “Correct.”

  “. . . because we don’t know what he’s got or where he’s hiding it.”

  “Correct.”

  “. . . and it would be dangerous for us to do anything until we know.”

  “Correct. And by me being there, helping him, I can watch him. Once we know what we’re facing, then we reassess what we need to do. Plus, like I said, there’s the off chance we can get this guy off and Beckett drops the whole thing,” Corbin added, though his tone demonstrated that he didn’t care about Beaumont’s fate.

  “That’s something I don’t get. How are you two gonna help this guy? I mean, wouldn’t he be better off with some local attorney, like a public defender?”

  “Despite Hollywood’s portrayal of public defenders as geniuses who forgo money for principle, most of them are the dregs of law school. A public defender is the last person you want defending you. Beckett and I can do better than any public defender this guy will find in Philly.”

  “What are you going to do about your boss?”

  “Kak? Nothing. I’ve got plenty of vacation time built up. I’ll take a couple days this week to scope out the situation. If the case doesn’t settle, then I’ll take whatever days I need to prepare for trial.”

  “Does you going increase the danger of us getting caught?”

  “It shouldn’t. The evidence points away from Beckett and me, not toward us. Besides, the prosecutor wants to convict this guy. He won’t be looking for alternative suspects, and he’ll never be looking at us.”

  “Beckett might do something stupid, something to tip them off?”

  “I’ll watch him.”

  “What if he tries to turn himself in? What if he confesses?”

  “I won’t let that happen.”

  “You know what that might mean, right?” Alvarez asked cautiously.

  Corbin didn’t respond.

  “What, no argument? You’ve been thinking about this haven’t you.”

  “Drop it,” Corbin finally said.

  “And?”

  “Drop it.” As he spoke, the last traces of sunlight faded from the apartment, leaving him entirely in the dark.

  Alvarez strained to see Corbin. “I’m entitled to know because my future’s on the line. Can you pull the trigger?”

  Corbin didn’t respond.

  Chapter 25

  Corbin stood in the lobby of the old Tribune Building. It had seen better days. The marble floor was cracked, the wallpaper dingy, and the brass fixtures lost their luster years ago. Few tenants remained. Beckett had arranged to borrow an office on the seventh floor while they worked on Beaumont’s case. The elevator ride to the seventh floor took a long two minutes. As Corbin stepped off the elevator, he found himself face to face with Beckett, who was pulling on his jacket and straightening his frayed tie.

  “Hey, Alex,” Beckett greeted Corbin as if nothing unpleasant had ever passed between them. “The court just called. They moved up the hearing. I’m going there now.”

  “Let me set my bag down, and I’ll join you,” Corbin replied as nonchalantly as he could manage; his rage remained, but he suppressed it. “Nice building by the way, was the morgue booked?”

  “You try finding an office free of charge in downtown Philly.”

  “Free of charge? How did you swing that?”

  “I called in an old favor.”

  “Must’ve been a small favor.”

  “Beggars can’t be choosers. Also, the office itself isn’t so bad, it’s been renovated.” Beckett showed Corbin to the conference room, which would be Corbin’s temporary office. Then they set off on foot to the courthouse.

  The Alfred E. Hackman Courthouse, located a long four-block walk from the Tribune Building, was old and gray, like much of the area. At one time, the courthouse had been a magnificent structure, a testament to noble dreams, but neglect and indifference robbed it of its glory. To divert attention from the encroaching decay, someone years ago, erected a modern sculpture of the scales of justice outside the courthouse. This sculpture consisted of a large steel spike and three misshapen scales. The highest scale contained an elongated globe of the Earth. The next contained a Botero-like sculpture of a dove. The third scale rested at ground level to allow passersby to stand within it. The sculpture lacked subtlety and grace.

  Beyond the sculpture, an oversized concrete stairway led to the courthouse entrance, which stood six feet above sidewalk level. A row of second floor windows surrounded the building just above the entrance and three more rows of windows stood above those. Just inside the entrance, two deputies ran a metal detector. Beckett identified himself and Corbin and gave the reason for their visit. He placed his bag on the X-ray machine and walked through the detector. Corbin followed.

  Corbin and Beckett made their way to the second floor main courtroom, where Judge Judith D’Amato held court today. The main courtroom was large, with an extremely high ceiling. Everything was ornately decorated in cherry wood. Portraits of retired judges hung around the room. Judge D’Amato, a smallish woman with a large voice, marked up a file as she listened to the colorful testimony of a police informant. A disheveled attorney in a cheap suit stood at the podium before Judge D’Amato. His feeble efforts to poke holes in the informant’s testimony kept falling flat. The disheveled attorney’s client, sitting at the defense table in an orange jumpsuit, with his wrists and ankles shackled, seemed resigned to his fate. Standing at the prosecution table, ready to pounce, was Hillary Morales, a stern-looking young Hispanic woman in a navy pantsuit. The jury box, to the right of the defense table, sat empty.

  Corbin and Beckett slipped into the courtroom and sat on the wooden benches at the back. Several other attorneys sat nearby, waiting to be heard.

  “I’m sorry. . . I don’t understand. What. . . what did he say?” the disheveled defense attorney asked the informant. He was struggling.

  “He said, ‘he jacked his shit,’ counselor,” the judge interceded without any trace of humor. “Move on.”

  “Yes, Your Honor,” the attorney replied. “But he didn’t say he actually saw my client steal anything?” the attorney asked the informant.

  “I said ‘move on,’ counselor,” Judge D’Amato warned. “We covered this already.”

  The attorney slumped his shoulders and looked at his client. “Nothing further.”

  Almost before the attorney left the podium, Morales took his place. If he hadn’t ducked at the last second, Morales would have elbowed him.

  “Your Honor, the people renew their motion.—”

  Judge D’Amato held up her hand to stop the young woman. “I’m inclined to agree, the case will stay docketed. But, I will allow bail. I’m setting bail at $15,000. Anything else?”

  “No, Your Honor,” said both Morales and the disheveled attorney in unison.

  “Very well, next case: People v. Beaumont.”

  As Judge D’Amato rearranged her files, two deputies came to the defense table and took the orange-jumpsuited defendant back to a hidden room behind the witness box. They immediately returned with a bald, muscular black man, also wearing an orange jumpsuit and shackles on his wrists and ankles. The deputies brought the shackled man over to the defense table, where Corbin and Beckett waited for the disheveled attorney to clear out.

  “Good to see you again, Beaumont,” Beckett said to the black man.

  “Who’s this,” Beaumont demanded, trying to point at Corbin, though the shackles kept him from raising his hands above his waist.

  “This is the guy I told you about. He’s going to help. Alex, let me introduce Washington Beaumont. Beaumont, Alex Corbin.”

  Corbin nodded, but Beaumont eyed him suspiciously. By the time Beckett first read about Beaumont’s case, Beaumont was already assigned a public defender. To convince Beaumont to drop the public defender and let Beckett represent him instead – and to explain why he wouldn’t charge Beaumont – Beckett told Beaumont that he wo
rks for a foundation which represents people who are unfairly targeted by the police. Beaumont accepted the explanation, primarily because his long association with the criminal justice system taught to distrust public defenders, but he remained suspicious, as he’d never heard of the foundation. He was particularly suspicious of Corbin, who dressed much more sharply than Beckett or the other people who normally worked for public interest organizations. Indeed, Corbin’s well-tailored, single-breasted, black suit, with his starched, French-blue, pure-cotton dress shirt, his dark-red designer tie, and his perfectly shined shoes, stood in stark contrast to Beckett’s dated and ill-fitting gray suit, his frayed, white, polyester shirt and paisley tie, and his un-shined shoes, which were breaking along the creases which appeared after years of hard use. Compared to Corbin, who looked like a professional, Beckett came across like a struggling solo-practitioner, who may or may not be living in his car.

  Before Beaumont could quiz Corbin, Morales tossed a file onto the defense table. She didn’t say a word. Beckett picked up the file and flipped through it.

  “Mr. Beaumont, welcome back,” Judge D’Amato called from the bench.

  “Thanks Judge, can’t say I want to be here.”

  “I can understand that, Mr. Beaumont, I can understand that,” the judge replied absently, as she flipped though the file. “Mr. Beckett, are you ready?”

  “Yes, Your Honor, though I’ve only just received the prosecution’s file, so I really don’t know yet what my client has been charged with or why.” Beckett held up the thick file to emphasize his point.

  “Are you ready to enter a plea?”

  “Yes, Your Honor.” Beckett motioned Beaumont to stand up.

  “How do you plead to the charges made against you,” the judge asked, without looking up from her file.

  “Not fucking guilty.”

  “‘Not guilty’ is enough, Mr. Beaumont. Let the record reflect the defendant entered a plea of not guilty. I’m going to hold the defendant over for trial. Do I hear any motions regarding bail?”

  Morales marched up to the podium. “The people ask that bail be denied as Mr. Beaumont is a flight risk. Additionally, given the number of people hurt, the prospects of continued future harm if he’s released, and his prior history—”